


Unsaid Things

by ikoliholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Civil War Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Feels, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11705028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikoliholic/pseuds/ikoliholic
Summary: “I love you.”“I love you too, bud.”“No,” Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “Iloveyou.”_______________In which Steve realises he’s totally, utterly gay for his best friend.





	Unsaid Things

**Author's Note:**

> I have both deep affection and frustration for how things are left between Steve and Bucky at the end of cacw. I rewatched the movie recently and just *had* to dig out and finish this fic as a gift from me to me.....and you. I hope you enjoy it.

_“Are you sure about this?”_

Steve plays the final conversation over and over again in his mind, but it doesn’t help. _Nothing_ helps. Simply knowing that Bucky is frozen in stasis in Wakanda makes his heart clamour and pound in his chest. He feels like he’s fighting a war all over again.

_Are you sure about this?_

Why didn’t he say what he'd really wanted to say?

_Don’t do this, Bucky. We’ve been through too much— anything else'll be easy compared to what's in the past._

The thought that his best friend is lying frozen, neither existing or not existing is unbearable.

He’d been frozen, once. Coming back into the world, adjusting to massive change— it wasn’t an easy thing to do.

He can’t possibly move on with this current situation. After all the fighting, the agonising search Steve had dedicated himself to, and when it came down to it, he hadn’t the courage to just say those three simple words…

_Don’t do this._

Or something else entirely; three other words that seem so obvious now, in retrospect.

To hell with it all.

***

Steve dreams. The same dream— day in, day out. When night comes, he almost looks forward to it…

“Are _you_ sure about this?”

The hesitation in Bucky’s voice is menacing, heart-wrenching for Steve.

“Buck. If you’re not sure-”

“I thought I was, but-”

“But what?”

“After batting your big pretty blues at me?” Bucky’s face softens around the edges with his own gentle mockery. “Y’could melt ice with those peepers.” His face falls then. “Uh, sorry. Bad joke I guess.”

Steve blinks self-consciously, despite his matching smile and light tone of voice, “Well, y’know. I did kinda help instigate a civil war just to keep you safe.”

“I thought it was because you fundamentally disagreed with signing the Accords?”

“Well, sure…. that too.” He wiggles his eyebrows with sarcasm, “But y’know, they just don’t make ‘em like me and you anymore.”

Suddenly, Bucky isn’t smiling. His face is contemplative instead, then he breaks his gaze away from Steve and stares at the floor.

Perhaps Steve is missing something, put a foot wrong in this dance. He grabs his friend by the shoulder, solid.

“Bucky, it’s not my decision to tell you either way. And if you feel it’s the right thing to d—” The sentence is stolen from his throat as Bucky grabs the back of his neck, lightening-fast, pulling him close. And oh, those _imploring_ eyes. Steve finds himself lost, mouth gaping open and dry.

Bucky looks tormented for a split second. He leans in closer still, breath ghosts over Steve’s face and suddenly they’re both swept up in the past; many an innocent drunken evening of lingering touch— inhaling too deep a friend’s proximity.

Bucky’s mouth curls as though he’s about to spill forth a thousand thoughts all at once, but instead finds better solace in the form of Steve’s lips, pressing gentle, cautious.

Steve’s world is always falling apart, it falls apart and rebuilds again and again, but _this_ is something new entirely. He responds, and just before he closes his own eyes, he watches Bucky’s roll closed as he searches deeper in the kiss, opening up Steve’s mouth with his own, tightening the grip on his hair.

Steve can’t help it— he moans into his mouth, and then Bucky is laughing— _laughing_ into his, and pushing him up against the pristine white walls, urgent and earnest all the same.

They break apart. Both want to take huge gulps of air but are too damn stubborn to relent.

Steve begins. “I…” he exhales, frustrated, a moment later. Bucky helps…

“—Wanted this for as long as you can remember but just didn’t—”

“—Realise?”

“Yeah.” Bucky smiles. “Pretty dumb, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a long sigh, “I guess we are.”

“You can be pretty. I’ll be dumb.” Lips curve into _that_ smile then and suddenly they’re kissing again. Steve is overwhelmed. Bucky tastes like nothing he’s ever experienced before; lips soft yet firm, rough beginnings of stubble making it so visceral against Steve’s own skin.

He has never kissed a man. Has never felt that way inclined. But then, this is Bucky. He’s _more_ than a man.

And he’s the only family Steve has got.

Nothing seems an issue in this moment, though. Tongue traces Steve’s jaw, throat, neck. Bucky grapples at his clothes, then Steve is shirking shirt over head, allowing Bucky’s passage to continue uninhibited.

Instead of a smirk, Bucky grins wide and bites his bottom lip while looking at Steve’s torso, before pressing a hot, wet kiss to his collar bone, trailing down and down and…

_Are you sure?_

…It doesn’t reach much further this time before Steve jolts awake. Sometimes the dream finishes sooner, sometimes it drags on languorously slow and deliciously torturous, and Steve will awaken in his bed sheets clammy and aroused and always _so_ heartbroken.

The thing that hurts most? Even in his dreams, Bucky still makes the same decision.

***

Steve still has no idea how to ‘deprogram’ The Winter Soldier, but he goes back to Wakanda anyway.

“You have not taken this decision lightly,” T’Challa says, and it is most definitely _not_ a question. “I can see it from the look on your face. It has torn you apart in ways you did not know it could.”

In a way, Steve hates how perceptive this man is— wise, unnervingly so. He’s told nobody his true feelings for Bucky, never mind the _dreams_. “Bucky is…”

“More than a friend.” Steve silences, while T’Challa’s face is knowing. “He is _family_.” He walks across to Steve and puts his hand on his shoulder. “If I were you, I would be conflicted too.”

“I know it’s a big ask, but I have some things I need to say to him.”

T’Challa nods, understanding. “So it might be that the process needs recalibrating almost instantly.”

“Like I say, I know—”

“It is not a problem,” T’Challa affirms. “The inconvenience is nothing compared to words left unsaid. Believe me. I know.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you come alone?”

Steve nods. “Nobody can know I’m here.”

“When I saw you enter, I disengaged the security video systems for this wing. It will remain so for as long as you are here,” T’Challa says, before glaring. “Do not make me regret it.”

For the first time today, there is clear warning to Steve: trust works both ways. “I promise, you won’t. Thank you.”

The process begins. T’Challa does everything himself with no assistance, pressing buttons in a startlingly complicated and fast sequence until the lights flash from red to green— a universal sign. “It has begun.” He gestures to the touchpad on the wall beside the chamber. “If you need me, the code for intercom is 9634, otherwise I will leave you alone.”

Steve nods, thanks him again.

Looks at the timer: three minutes and counting. Feels like a lifetime as it ticks down, though in some ways it reminds him that his best friend is something like a piece of half-thawed chicken that needs defrosting in a microwave. He smiles then, distracted at thoughts of Natasha rolling her eyes at Steve’s amazement of the _non-amazing_ household contraption in Avengers’ Tower. _Y’know, you were practically cooked in a microwave of your own_.

He laughs aloud remembering that. The thought distracts him for a pleasant few seconds, but then he wonders what his other friends would think of him sneaking around like this. Well, the ones he has left.

Two minutes now. Worry starts to surge through his veins as he sees musculature twitch. What if Bucky gets harmed, like this? What if he laughs in his face?

One minute and smoke has built up in the chamber.

No, he _has_ to tell him.

The last ten seconds beep down and the door automatically opens. Once the smoke dies down, Steve can see steely blue eyes focused on nothing but him.

“Bucky,” he says, and it takes all his might not to reach out and touch, just to check that James Buchanan Barnes is still living, breathing, still _real_.

Bucky blinks in confusion, tilts his head slightly.

“Can you not speak yet?” Bucky tries his vocal chords, shakes his head. “Don’t strain yourself.” The mechanism releases Bucky’s body and he staggers out, almost falling on top of Steve. “It’s okay, I gotcha. Come on, let’s go sit down.”

“What—” he rasps, “—date?”

“2016.”

“Barely a catnap,” he sniggers and croaks.

When they sit down, Steve looks at Bucky. He’s disorientated, but there’s so much hope in his eyes that it breaks Steve’s heart just to get the damned words out. “I don’t want to disappoint you, but we haven’t figured out what we can do for you yet.”

The disappointment _is_ evident, but not as much as Steve would have thought. More concern. “Why have—” Bucky rasps again, splutters a cough. His chest is heaving by the end of it, and Steve holds his shoulders.

“It’s okay, breathe. Breathe. I got you.”

Bucky gulps in a huge swell of air, exhales calmly. They wait a few minutes. He blinks rapidly and something seems to shift in his expression, like he’s back to normal… whatever _normal_ is, in this context.

“You okay?”

He nods. “So weird, being in that state. Brings back bad shit, y’know?”

Steve knows. “Listen. I’ve got something to say,” _he_ breathes rapidly now, gulps down trepidation. Unsuccessfully. Just _how_ is he supposed to even begin? “I probably should have said it a long time ago… at least before… but I didn’t know. Didn’t _think_.”

Bucky looks worried as Steve continues. “See, I’ve been having these dreams.”

“Like visions?” Bucky asks. “Prophesies?” He cracks into a smile and croaks again. “You been spending too much time around wizards and witches?”

When Steve offers only the faintest simmer of smile, Bucky _really_ starts to look serious.

“No, not prophesies of any sort,” Steve considers his own words. “More like regret. Unsaid things. A different world.”

“What kinda world?”

“One were you aren’t so sure about coming here. Doing this. Being—”

“—Frozen like a bad Thanksgiving turkey?”

“Something like that.” Blue eyes go misty.

“Is that all you did this for, Steve?” _Other_ blue eyes implore. Steve nods. Silence prevails, long and unforgiving. After a while, Bucky breaks it. “Because I’m kinda getting the feeling there’s something you’re _not_ saying.”

Steve breathes in another huge gulp of air. “I can’t do it.” Nervous laughter bubbles over and he shakes his head. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Do what?” Bucky asks. “Steve, what’s wrong? You’re freaking me out, pal.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, bud.”

“No,” Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “I _love_ you.”

Then it’s time for the world to come crashing in, for awkward disgust and jovial contempt and silence. Maybe Buck’ll never speak to him again. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll kiss him…

What he doesn’t expect though, within three seconds, is a sharp and vicious punch to the face. Caught unawares, the impact sends Steve flying from his chair and into the wall, which he ricochets off like a bouncing bullet, straight to the ground.

His nose trickles blood, and Bucky shoves him down with one arm — his _only_ damned arm— til his back, neck and head are flush with the dull steel floor.

Straddling him, Bucky’s fist goes from clenched to loose, gripping Steve’s shirt across his chest, feeling the rattling heart within. Steve knows he must look a sight, but surely nothing compared to the wild look of rage on his friend’s face.

His friend, gasping for air, gasping to control anger.

His best friend.

He won’t dare sit up.

“You’re a _total_ fucking asshole, you know that?”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“For what?” Buck spits, “Loving me, or waiting ’til the worst possible time to tell me?”

“Both.” And he means it. “I didn’t know. I _swear_ I didn’t realise ’til it was too late.”

Bucky stoops down. “Who says it’s too late?” He has anger in his expression and voice, but a softness renews in his eyes. “Seriously, Steve. Who says it’s too late? You? Me? And why are you so damn well sorry?”

“I just,” Sighs deep, shakes his head, gives crystal blue glare. “I just _am_ , okay?”

“Jesus Christ.” Realisation sweeps across his face. “I’m gonna be frozen again with _this_ as my last memory…”

“You don’t have to.”

Pushes Steve against the wall. “I _do_ have to, Steve. You seriously can’t expect me to endanger the world while there’s no fix for _this_ ,” his eyes well up as he stammers, “j-just because you tell me something deep down I already damn well knew?”

Steve’s eyes shade darker with disappointment, and Bucky realises at the same time he does that that’s _exactly_ what he expected. “You knew?” Eyes widen with hope and regret both. “All the time we spent together and you _knew_ how I felt, and you didn’t even think to bring it up?”

Bucky loosens his grip. “Did you?”

“This was a mistake.” Cap walks over to the Intercom. His hand grazes 9, but he can’t bring himself to push in further, shame and regret coursing his veins. Total, _utter_ regret.

Then, Bucky’s hand laces over his, and pulls him away.

“Let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing left to say, Buck.”

“For you, maybe.” He smiles. “But hear me out.”

They sit together, opposite each other, legs crossed on the floor.

“I’m sorry for punching you. You want some ice or something?”

Steve shoots him a look of _don’t even insult me with that shit_ , so Bucky smiles again. “Call it heated instinct or muscle memory or something, I don’t know. Anyway, I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The silence is awkward. “So you had something to say?”

“Me and you. I always felt…” Bucky trails off, struggling for the words. “Look. We grew up in a time when that kinda thing… Well, you couldn’t live your life that way without committing to shadows and deceit.”

Steve blinks, trying to process.

“Are you sayin—”

“Captain America,” Bucky chides, “will you let a man damn well talk his heart out?”

“But all the _women_ —”

“Yeah. All the women,” he says, both rueful _and_ fondly reminiscent. “They weren’t you.”

It’s a sucker punch to Steve’s chest. His mind rattles at the magnitude of his friend’s honesty.

“All this time?”

“Yeah, all this time.” Bucky smiles. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

“I guess we are.”

“You can be pretty. I’ll be dumb.” Lips curve into _that_ smile, and it’s just like the damned dream, and then they’re kissing with earnest fervour, unable to get enough of each other.

Steve is overwhelmed— Bucky’s lips are so soft, contrasting with the rough, visceral feel of stubble against his own skin. Soon enough a wide, fervent mouth trails hotly across concave and rippling muscle, down and down and down, coming to a halt before _that_ boundary is forever broken…

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, voice hoarse with need. The familiar words resonate in Steve’s ears, but the answer is already clear as day: To hell with the what-ifs and future ramifications— right now, he’s never been more certain of anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) This is my first Stucky fic, so I'd particularly appreciate any comments or feedback, either here or via [Tumblr](https://ikoliholic.tumblr.com/).


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